Eternally Missed
by Clez
Summary: When we look back on the past, and contemplate the future, is it all as simple as we really think? Is it all really black and white? No... nothing is ever that simple. We all make mistakes... and we all need to try and make amends... don't we?


**Author's Note:** This one… went a bit awry on me as I was writing it, and I'm not quite sure what I was doing, but I hope I get something done, and it satisfies, in one way or another. If something comes of it, even if only an emotion, then I'm happy with it… not sure what to make of this one myself. The name comes from a **Muse** song of the same name, and I just had to use it…

* * *

            Though it was true that Captain Nemo was an inventor of _many_ great things, it was also true that perhaps none were more favoured than the showering cubicles on his mighty Nautilus. The providing of immediate – or thereabouts – hot water for upright and swift washing was what many believed to be a great achievement to the Indian's name. Everyone aboard appreciated the privilege of the showers, and perhaps only one man abused it… but the only person on the submersible who needed to concern herself with such a possible intrusion was one Mrs. Wilhelmina 'Mina' Harker. She was somewhere in the depths of the ship at the moment, with the 'privilege abuser' off picking the lock to the vampiress' room, or rummaging through her underwear drawer.

            There was only one occupant in the cubicles at the present time, not surprising given the late hour… nearly midnight. It was odd to conceive showering at such a time, but the necessity to think had overcome him, and it seemed as good a place as any to indulge himself in musing. After all… they were submerged, therefore making the conning tower an impossibility. The odd thing was, he had been in the cubicle for almost half an hour before any real thought other than reminiscing had hit him full force, with the intention of overwhelming him, it seemed. Many things swirled and ebbed in his mind, and he had to fight to focus them all, force them into perspective and categorise them for serious consideration.

            Special Agent Thomas 'Tom' Sawyer pressed his head and face under the hot, refreshing – and obviously cleansing – stream of pressured water for another long moment, and subconsciously sighed out a name, "Becky…"

            He leaned his forehead against the cool back wall of the cubicle for a moment then, and furrowed his brow pensively. Why – apart from the obvious reason – this name? Hadn't he moved on? Hadn't he seen enough to forget her?

            But as he stood, sighing almost longingly, her face came back into his mind again, as it had countless times before, with startling clarity. Her loosely curled honey blonde tresses of soft hair, like silk to the touch, and like a halo around her almost angelic face. She was beautiful, yes, but in more than just the physical kind of way. She had a fire, a bravery and an intelligence that made her more gorgeous and appealing than her slim waist, her lovely hair, or the soulful depth of her baby blue eyes. Rebecca Thatcher had _always_ carried herself with a divine grace comparable to Mina Harker herself, but with a subtle pride the vampire seemed to lack. Becky had been through much, but not quite as much as Mrs. Harker… Mina.

            Somehow, Tom always seemed to end up comparing the two women who had – perhaps with the exception of dear old Aunt Polly – been most influential in his life. Becky had taught him the meaning and importance of things such as love, beauty, pride and devotion… but it was Mina who had shown him the values of strength, honour, nobility and chivalry… both women perhaps without really intending to. They were both more important than they probably realised… or ever would, unless he told them.

            Turning his back against the cubicle wall gently, he ran his mind over his past, from when he had first seen Becky Thatcher, to when he had last seen Mina Harker at dinner. And as he reminisced, that ever-burning question once again resurfaced and flared into precedence in his mind.

            _Which one will it be?_

            Sighing again, Tom bowed his head in order to allow the water to coarse over from the back of his skull, around his face and neck, to drip solemnly to the floor of the cubicle.

            Becky's last words to him had been… nonexistent, at Huckleberry Finn's funeral. She had looked on him meaningfully, silent and sad, with a gaze that had conveyed more than words probably ever could. It had told him about the breaking of her heart, the loss of a dear friend like a brother… and her wish to perhaps never again see the face of the man who had caused her so much pain and anguish in the past. She couldn't take it anymore.

            Mina had last looked on him with affection… but had it been loving? No… it had been caring, yes… protective, certainly, but it had not spoken to him of the much-valued human emotion that was love. She looked on him as a team mate, someone she held dear, and perhaps needed to shield, but not as she would have on the late Jonathan Harker. Tom could only imagine the devotion and adoration between the two scientists.

            What was a young spy to an immortal vampire with a mind for calculation and equation?

            But then again, what was a young spy to a humble southern girl whose heart he had broken, in more ways than one? He had dealt her a wound perhaps more damaging than any bullet or blade could _ever_ accomplish… and he hated himself for it.

            He hated the way he had hurt the woman he had loved… the way he had thrown her care and devotion away with the simple stepping onto a boat, and casting his life out into chaos. He had ruined everything in his joining the Secret Service… everything about his innocent life in Missouri was gone… save for the memories. They would forever linger. He wasn't sure what was worse… the loss of the life, or remembering what he had once had.

            Tom slowly lowered himself down the wall, sighing heavily, and running his hands back, and roughly dragging his fingers through the locks of his blonde hair, tugging it back over his head, and then letting it meticulously drop forward as the water ran over him. Was this really the life he wanted? He had two beautiful women… _had_ had two… now he had one… one with no real romantic interest in him because she – as Quatermain had – looked on him as how he appeared to be. A boy. Nothing more than an idiotically courageous boy, whose life could be extinguished at the thrust of a blade, or with the pulling of a trigger… or given _enough_ time… by time itself.

            As he sat back on his haunches in the shower cubicle, with water surging over him from above, and his back leaning against the wall, he turned his face up into the flow, trying to think back over all the decisions he had ever made in his life. The good ones, the bad ones… and the ones he had never finalised. Which were worse? Had he always been right in choosing what he had? Who was to say that any choice was right or wrong?

            In his mind, all he could think about was the two women he had ever really cared about in the fiercest sense. And he could have neither of them… neither would take him.

            Dragging himself out of the cubicle after turning off the water – all of which he did without realising – he towelled himself off, and dressed roughly, throwing on his shirt, and then stopping before fastening it. His hair dripped water, down onto the shirt, soaking it through and leaving small patches of more opaque fabric, showing the absorbing of moisture. He simply stared straight ahead, at the wall, as he remembered Becky's face exactly how it had been at the docks when they had left… the optimism in her eyes, clouded with worry, and affection… when they had kissed. He frowned, and sighed sorrowfully, grabbing the towel again, and trying to dry his hair somewhat.

            He made it all the way back to his cabin without realising it, and was sitting on his bed before he knew where he was, the towel still in his hands, and the laces on his boots untied, rather hazardously. He had actually managed to get through the corridors of the Nautilus with his shirt unfastened as well, his waistcoat left in the showering room. Tom didn't care. He had more important things on his mind now.

            Glancing to the carefully placed twin Colt pistols on his desk, gleaming slightly in the wan light the lamps threw out, he furrowed his brows with thought, trying to consider whether or not it had really been worth the prospect of marriage to join the Service, leave the country… and watch his partner – not to mention best friend – die at the hands of a madman.

            No… nothing was worth that. He wished he had stayed… he so wished he had turned down the mission, and stayed with Becky. Perhaps then, Huck would still be alive, and he and Becky would be married by now… or at least happy.

            This was unbearable… knowing she was alive but unable to reach out and touch her face, unable to hold her, look into her eyes and tell her how beautiful she was… and how much he loved her.

            Did he love her? Was it _really_ Becky Thatcher that he wanted? Or was it something else entirely? Something more adventurous… altogether dangerous.

            Was it actually the love of a vampire widow that he so longed for, and was he simply trying to squash such ideas with memories of a past love that came in close for leading his heart to where it wanted to be? He didn't know how to sort these feelings, and it was painful and frustrating.

            Mina Harker had always been – for the most part – kind to him. She had been understanding, supportive… and she had listened when he had needed to talk. She had helped him in more ways than one. She had helped him – along with Quatermain – to grow into the young man he was today. She had shown him compassion on the conning tower when he had tried to apologise for his forward behaviour… and had actually shown him a promising side of her personality, one that had made him believe that perhaps… _just_ perhaps… there was a possibility in the future. But was there really, or had she just been playing on his optimism to help and improve a dismal situation when all had seemed bleak?

            Again… he didn't know what to believe or feel. It burned through him like a fire, licking at his brain and heart, burning and scarring them, wounding him terribly so he couldn't decide, and he wanted nothing more than to stop the flames, engulf them and extinguish them, sort his feelings and _really_ decide what it was that he wanted.

            But as he sat on the end of that firm yet comfortable mattress that had become such a standard day to day part of his life, he thought back on his childhood… and how simple things had been… or near enough. It had never really been simple, but he had enjoyed it. He had had adventures, with wonderful friends: Huck Finn; Joe Harper; Ben Rogers… where were they all now? They had all joined up as well. Huck was dead… and Tom blamed himself. As for the other two… the last he had heard, they had been headed into Europe, but he hadn't known why. Were they even still alive?

            It was agony not to know… he had to know about his friends. He had to know about his half brother Sid, and his adoring cousin Mary… he had to know they were all right, and that all was well, regardless of his absence. He needed to hear from them, to see in writing – at the very least – that they were alive, that they were getting on with their lives, and that they were moving on… away from him.

            The burning inside of him only intensified, until he stood hastily from the bed, and strode to the desk against the wall. He tore open a drawer, and rummaged through it, his hands working independently from his eyes, which were searching for a pen.

            "C'mon, c'mon…" he muttered to himself, pulling all sorts of odds and ends out of the drawers in his hurry, sending them onto the floor. Everything from already used papers to bullets was sent onto the floor, and he heard them fall, not caring in the slightest about the mess he was making. Finally clutching onto what he had been searching for, he let out a slight yelp of triumph, and grasped it firmly, pulling it out from the back of the drawer. It was a collection of bound unmarred sheets of plain paper, and he set them down on the desk, before snatching a pen out from another drawer, and sitting himself down in the chair.

            He forced himself to promise… to _swear_, even, not to leave the room until he had written letters to all of those people he had left behind. Becky, Joe, Ben, Mary and Sid… all of them.

            And then maybe after that… just maybe, he would write a letter to Mina.


End file.
